


Da Capo al Fine

by blackpink_writes



Category: BLACKPINK (Band), K-pop
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Drinking, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, I use italics WAY too much, Mutual Pining, Self-Worth Issues, from both of them! how exciting, i am sorry in advance for all the slanty words, no beta we die like men, so much mutual pining and self-doubt that it hurts, this took me forever please read it aha, writing this made me want to have a romantic encounter in a music shop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26043874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackpink_writes/pseuds/blackpink_writes
Summary: From the beginning: when we first met, and our voices danced through the air.To the end: when last her eyes met mine and it started all over again.OR:The one where everything comes full circle.
Relationships: Park Chaeyoung | Rosé/Reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 87





	Da Capo al Fine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blkpnk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blkpnk/gifts).



> Y/N = [your name]
> 
> leave a comment/kudos!

Perfection.

It’s the only word appropriate for how the beautifully crafted instrument fits in your hands, how it sits between your arms as you bring it flush against your chest and run a tentative palm along the frets. The strings—tuned as you requested—ring with a quality that outshines anything else you’ve ever played. There’s a pearlescent inlay along the neck that peeks up at you; it spells your name in hues of pink and purple and green, and you think that it’s something like having a bit of spring in the palm of your hand when you hold it.

Your hands move as though they’re already intimately familiar with the guitar. Chord after chord echoes through the small, family owned shop, and you love how the sound carves a winding path along the walls. Note after note flow from you and your new companion like water from a spring. You look up, briefly, practicing as you always do, and spot the onset of dusk.

Shadows stretch along the sidewalks, orange light flooding the street like a river of gold. Flowers sway, just as the people outside the windows do, as a light breeze grazes over everything beyond the glass. You smile; your best music is always played at times like these—when the world is calm and your mind at peace. So you think, only for a moment, before a certain song enters your mind and won’t leave it.

You hum, even before you’ve found the proper key, and begin to play a song you know a little _too_ well. The sad melody you pluck on your strings is the only music there for several bars, but your voice flows seamlessly into the mix as you begin with hushed tones.

_“So easily, with harsh words, you leave scars in my heart.”_ A beat. _“Without an apology, again, I comfort myself.”_ Your voice carries through to the next line, aching with emotions you’ve been lucky enough never to feel. _“Always nervous that you’ll leave me, I just want you to stay.”_

You move to the next verse smoothly, body swaying lightly as the rhythm moves steadily along.

_“Your expressionless face slowly gets more dull, oh; I whisper to the mirror: Let’s slowly let this go, oh.”_ In the split second before you move to the next line, the bell above the door chimes. _“You take me for granted, but that’s just you; still—stay, stay, stay with me.”_

As you switch gears, fingers brushing lightly against the strings as you prepare to hit the final lines before the chorus, there’s a shuffle behind you at the counter. _Another customer,_ you think absently as muscle memory keeps you on beat.

_“This sad melody resembles you, it makes me cry.”_ Your voice carries sweetly throughout the small business. The shuffling behind you stops, and it seems as though the old man and his customer are listening intently. _“Your scent is a sweet felony. I hate you; I love you.”_

You’re taken aback when another voice joins yours. You don’t miss a beat, however, and let the mysterious vocalist take over the verse as you play along. She seems to know the song better than you do and takes the lead without hesitation. You let her, focusing on the airy wisp of her voice as you play.

_“There’s nothing more I want now; I can’t even tell if my heart is beating.”_ When the mystery girl begins to rap, you find yourself pleasantly surprised at her technique. She hits the rhythm of the words perfectly as she dances in the corner of your vision. Her sheer, peach-tinted top billows around her and you smile as she continues. _“Rather than forcing conversations, I’d rather sit in awkward silence with you.”_

_“So stay, wherever that may be,”_ you interject. _“Sometimes, when darkness comes, I’ll be your fire. In this world that’s a lie, the only truth is you. This a letter from me to you.”_

A pair of hands land gently on your shoulders and much to your own surprise, you don’t flinch at the touch. It soothes you; like she’s someone you’ve known your whole life.

She takes up the torch and sings the next verse, your voice rising to meet hers with softer alto harmonies. There’s a moment, as she sings sweetly by your ear, that you nearly forget to breathe. But you do, and the sweet scent of flowers overtakes your senses. You’ve never felt this before. You can’t stop smiling; you don’t _want_ to stop smiling.

You can’t help but marvel at how lucky you are to have your impromptu performance end up this way. The original doesn’t allow for many ad-libs; not with the way it was arranged. But when you sing it like this—harmonizing with a stranger, no less—the feeling of the song is given life. A feeling of both familiarity, and a complete lack of it. Your heart skips at the beauty of her voice as she slides through a run, and with equal parts elation and stomach-turning anxiety you realize exactly why her voice is so _familiar_ to you.

Blackpink’s Rosé spins into your line of sight, taking a dramatic seat on the stool across from you as the final few bars approach. She’s smiling, you realize. Directly at you. Your voice fails you, and with a blush you’re sure she’s noticed you turn your attention back to the instrument in your lap.

_“I don’t expect a lot right now, just stay with me.”_

There’s a blanket of quiet that settles over everything, heavy and awkward as you refuse to look up at your unexpected partner.

For a moment, you just pluck absently at the strings of your new guitar. She’s noticed your embarrassment—you can tell by the shift in her weight, the creak of the old stool as she leans forward. You can’t look at her, not when you feel your nerves thrumming just under the surface of your skin, heart beating so loud you fear she might hear it.

“You’re amazing.” Her words are sincere and a bit shy; not unlike herself. Slowly, your gazes link and everything stops.

She’s all fairy-like beauty—with the subtle waves in her hair and a deceptively charming twinkle in her eye. She rocks back gently on her perch, her eyes catching in the evening sunlight and flashing a wondrous golden hue. You’re entranced by her soft features; her dazzling smile, plump cheeks, an air of casual grace that leaves you stunned. She could be royalty for all you know—perhaps she is, with her effortless poise. And yet... there she sits. Perched upon a squeaky stool, palms splayed over her knees as she leers forward, eyeing your guitar in wonderment. She, for all her notoriety and fame, is completely, utterly _normal_.

“That’s my line.” Your answer is far more flirtatious than you intend it to be, but in her presence, who could blame you? She _is_ perfect, after all. You can’t even bring yourself to walk back on your words when you see the tips of her ears turn a light pink reminiscent of her stage name. She cards a hand through her hair and turns her eyes to the floor.

“Where did you learn to play?” The question is simple. Just six words strung together to diffuse the tension your performance created between the both of you. But your mouth won’t move unless you manually override the anxiety that’s twisting your stomach into knots. Your brain tells you this will be the start of something life changing. Earth-shattering. Potentially _life-ruining_ if you’re not careful. But your heart overrides that cynical, overprotective part of your mind.

“I’m self-taught, actually,” you hum, thinking back to all the days spent plucking various melodies in hopes of eventually getting them right. Hours spent in front of a bright screen, mimicking chord progressions from videos or watching live performances. Your hands ache at the memory, but you smile, too. Just a bit.

“Me too,” she answers. “I always played, back home.” Rosé smiles wistfully. Despite the serenity in her voice, you don’t miss the twinge of loneliness that creeps into her expression.

“Maybe we can play together, sometime?” The words are out in the open before you even realize you’ve said them. Your heart drops into your gut as she levels you with a quizzical stare, expression guarded and entirely different from the nostalgia that painted it a moment ago. Instinctively, you brace for disappointment. It’s what you’re used to, and you can’t expect much else from her when you’ve only just met.

Instead, she surprises you.

“I’d like that.” She’s smiling, happy and bright. It makes you smile, too.

Rosé leaves you minutes later, clutching the strings she’d bought to her chest as she glances down to her phone screen. You smile to yourself and turn away as she pushes her way out of the shop and into the twilight beyond the glass, waving as she goes.

_(When it started, my mind didn’t believe what my heart already knew for certain.)_

* * *

The first time Rosé invites you out, there aren’t any impromptu performances involved.

You sit across from one another in a small café bustling with enough activity that nobody pays the star any mind. It’s something she’s clearly grateful for, sipping on her coffee with hardly any tension in her shoulders. You can’t seem to do the same.

It makes you nervous; being here with her, surrounded by so many people all at once. You keep looking over your shoulder, expecting fans to swarm the table any second and knock you from your seat in the process. Or perhaps the press will come knocking on the windows, ready to snap pictures of Rosé and her new, unsuspecting friend.

She senses your discomfort, a knowing edge in her smile as she takes yet another sip of coffee. Rosé sets her cup down, reaching across the table to unfurl your clenched fist with her own slender fingers. You stare at your now joined hands, and then shift that stare to her waiting eyes.

“Relax,” she says.

That’s all you need to hear to lose some of the tension in the set of your jaw. You relax your fingers and Rosé retracts her own, wrapping them around her warm mug. She watches you, finally, take a page from her book and take a sip of your own drink; a spiced black tea that warms you down to your toes. She smiles at you over the rim of her cup when you let out a long sigh.

“You don’t strike me as the type to get nervous easily.” Rosé leans forward, elbow on the table and chin in hand. “What’s got you anxious?”

_Maybe the fact that a super-famous, super-gorgeous idol is sitting across from me in public,_ you think. Your eyes dart from the long line, to the friendly reunions taking up whole booths, to the breakups happening in quiet corners of the establishment. _Maybe it’s that she makes me feel things I never expected to feel._ You hum, swirling your tea, watching the dark amber liquid as it coalesces into a small vortex in the center of the cup. Spinning just like your head and your heart, showing no signs of stopping.

“I guess I’m just surprised nobody’s noticed you yet,” is all you can think to say. The words are stilted—and not the whole truth. You’re sure Rosé knows that, but she makes no comment on the half-lie. Instead, she scans the throngs of customers, gaze easygoing with a distinct edge of alertness you’d failed to notice before.

“They haven’t. That’s the beauty of hiding in plain sight,” she says with a satisfied nod, turning a reassuring smile to you. “Nobody ever thinks to look for us in small places like this, no matter how busy it gets.”

You can’t help it when you make a face. “That seems _way_ too easy.” Rosé giggles at that.

Despite barely knowing one another, it’s easy after that. Conversation flows, crowds thin, and before you realize it, the sun is glowing orange and it’s late afternoon. The world outside bustles as people scramble to get home for dinner, passing by the windows in muffled conversation as you and Rosé people-watch.

One woman is screaming into a Bluetooth earpiece about reservations and babysitters.

A family of five play in the park across the way, tossing a frisbee between them.

An elderly couple pass by holding hands. They catch your eye, smiling at you.

“See that man?” Rosé asks you after a gaping silence, pointing with the same hand that holds her coffee. Your head swivels, following her gaze to a middle-aged man at the corner outside the café. He’s a stout man in a black coat and jeans, and his eyes are busy scanning the throngs of people passing him by on the sidewalk. Occasionally, though, they land directly on you with a hardness that makes you want to sink into the old wooden floors. If she hadn’t pointed him out to you, he’d have been just as nondescript as the rest of the bodies outside. You turn back to her, brows pulled together.

“What about him?” You punctuate your confusion with a pointed sip of tea. She lets out a single puff of a laugh, leaning back in her seat.

“He’s one of our managers,” is all she says before she polishes off the remaining coffee in her mug. As she sets the cup on the table, her eyes won’t meet yours. You think she looks sheepish, and a coy smirk pulls at your lips. “He, uh… didn’t know I was here with you.”

“Oh?” You can’t stop the smirk from growing into a grin. “Is miss Rosé a _rebel_? Sneaking away for a coffee date when you’re supposed to be working?”

She laughs, then. Full-bodied, melodious, and maybe a little incredulous at your sass. Your joke landed far better than you anticipated. _I could get used to that sound_ , is all you can think before your mind comes to a screeching halt and the grin drops abruptly from your face. Somewhere in the back of your mind, shuffled away behind work and music and anxiety and _Rosé,_ an alarm is blaring, and you can’t find the switch to shut it off.

She says something to you, and you don’t quite catch it, but when you look up at her she’s smiling at you. And it’s _different_ than before. Different from the first time. You clear your throat.

“I take it you have to go?” She nods, pouting. With a sigh, she sets about gathering her things. A single handbag, large enough for her phone and _maybe_ a singular lip balm, a pastel pink beret, and the blazer she’d worn over her shoulders when she met you just outside hours ago.

“I’d love to stay and chat longer,” she says, “but I’ve got an important project to work on. Studio hours are few and far between right now.”

That sparks your inner musician’s interest, but you don’t want to pry. Instead, you nod like you understand the intricacies of idol life—which you decidedly do _not_ —and offer a slight wave as she makes her way to the door.

“I hope you find some worthwhile inspiration.” You can’t stop yourself from speaking the words. Rosé stills with her hand on the doorknob and looks over her shoulder at you.

There’s something about her gaze that pins you there. It’s curious and analytical. Like she’s studying you. Looking for answers somewhere between the confusion of your eyes and the conviction of your words. Something clicks, and her gaze softens. Rosé smiles in a way you’re not familiar with yet; eyes like crescents, the corners of her mouth turned upward in a gentle curve that compels your stomach to do an uncomfortable flip. It’s a genuine smile. The first of many you’re sure to receive.

“I think I have,” she says, opening the door and walking into the wide, crowded world beyond.

_(A wistful turn of her lips was all it took to demolish the walls I spent my whole life building. A smile that spoke of fulfilled dreams and bright futures I dared never to want for myself.)_

* * *

The second time, Rosé invites you to the dorms.

You, of course, have _plenty_ of reservations about that. As you always do, you choose not to bring them up and agree to meet her there.

At noon sharp, a very excited body crashes into your own as you enter the lobby of the upscale building.

The first thing you notice after realizing that you and your guitar case are now on the floor, is that the woman in your personal space is not Rosé. The second thing you notice is a slightly worried but mostly amused Rosé nearly skidding to a halt next to you, laughter on her halted breath.

“Lisa, let her breathe!” Rosé says, disentangling your limbs and helping both of you—no _wait_ , just you, actually—to your feet. Your arms tingle where her hands linger on them just a moment too long, but Rosé doesn’t draw them away like she’s been burned. Not like you would have. Movement in your periphery catches your eye, and this time, it doesn’t surprise you when Lisa pops up directly next to her with a grin so wide you’re genuinely scared she might pull several muscles in her face.

“Uh,” is all you can say, a breathless, confused sound that lilts upward along with your stiff smile. Lisa bounces forward a half-step, suddenly in your space all over again.

“Hi!” She’s nearly shouting but doesn’t seem to realize that. “I’m Lisa.” A hand shoots out and stops just shy of your own, hanging there in the silence that lasts way too long as you collect yourself.

“Hi,” you mime back, grabbing the hand she’s offered gingerly. “I’m—”

“Oh, we all know who you are,” Lisa says with a suggestive waggle of her brows, which draws an embarrassed squeak from Rosé. Before you can even ask, or comprehend that she’s as red as you’ve ever seen her, she’s already handing you your fallen guitar case and swatting Lisa hard on the shoulder.

“ _Okay_ ,” she bites, glaring at her bandmate. “Weird introduction but good enough, I guess!” She herds the both of you to the elevators and hits the button for the fifteenth floor while you try to find a way to stow your guitar between two other people for the ride up. You end up leaning your elbows on the top of the case while Lisa practically vibrates with excitement next to you. She flashes another too-wide grin your way.

“I’m sorry about, uh… tackling you,” she mutters to you. Her grin morphs into something more embarrassed. “I’m just so happy to meet you.”

“Thanks,” you say, a smile clawing its way to the surface on your own face, too. Your eyes dart to Rosé. She’s got her eyes forward, pretending not to listen, but there’s a turn to her cheeks that gives away her smile. Again, your stomach does that _damn_ flip.

The three of you step out of the elevator minutes later, rounding a corner and stopping at a large door at the end of the hallway. Rosé turns to you, mouth open and the beginnings of a sentence spilling out. Lisa surprises you by slinging a long arm around your shoulders, tugging you into her side. Involuntarily, you seize up. Everything is tense under her touch. It takes you half a second, but you manage to relax your neck and shoulders. Everything else follows. You expect her to pull away from you, but thankfully Lisa doesn’t seem offended. In fact, you don’t even think she’s noticed.

“Jennie and Jisoo are _also_ very excited to meet you,” she says before Rosé can get a word in. The latter just rolls her eyes at Lisa, scoffing with a fond smile on her face as she opens the door and leads you into a whole new realm.

_(A brightness I’ve never felt settles in my heart and makes its home there. I wonder what its name would be if it had one.)_

* * *

One jam-session later, you can’t help but feel infinitely closer to everyone else in the room.

Like at the café, the hours pass you by in a wink and it’s late when you finally look at your phone.

Just past one in the morning, everyone but you and Rosé has dozed off on the beanbags. You watch them sleep as you lean on your guitar, a new and unfamiliar fondness swelling in your chest. Maybe that’s the feeling that spurs the smile to your lips, and the feeling that keeps it there when you meet Rosé’s eyes.

She has her guitar out too, but she’s taken to leaning it on the sofa instead of holding it in her lap. When you look at her, she’s already looking back. A smile rests on her features, too.

“That wasn’t so bad,” you murmur, careful not to speak too loudly lest you wake all three sleeping beauties. Not one of them stirs. Instead, they remain curled into each other’s sides as the clock ticks, echoing like gunshots in the silence.

“Thanks for coming,” Rosé whispers. A beat. “I think they like you.”

There’s something like pride in her voice. Like she’s done well on a test and answered the hardest question correctly when everyone else got it wrong. And if that pride was for _you_? Because the most important people in her life _approved_ of you? Well. You aren’t sure you could justify the hammering in your heart any other way. You don’t want to, besides.

“I hope so,” you say, laying your head on folded arms and staring at the horizon through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.

When Rosé reaches for you, puts a hand on your shoulder just like she did when the two of you finished your acoustic rendition of Stay for the girls to hear, your heart rockets into your throat. The hairs on the back of your neck stand right up at the contact. Your stomach flips _again_. Rosé’s skin on yours lights up your nerves like a Christmas tree, your entire body thrumming at one touch. You’re standing at the edge of something and her hand is the only thing anchoring you there, and when it drops back into her own lap you feel like you’ve been shoved from a cliff.

_(I feel like I’m falling, holding on to my wish to find someone I’ve already found.)_

* * *

It’s so _easy_ with her. Everything is.

Talking is easy, laughing is easy. Even touching people becomes easier for you, but it’s still easiest when it’s her. When it’s Rosé.

When she gravitates to your side, even if you started on opposite ends of the couch. Whenever she lays her head on your shoulder or puts her legs in your lap. When she wraps your colder fingers in her much warmer ones and doesn’t let them go for the rest of the night.

Before, you flinched away from touch, no matter who it was. But not once have you shied away from her.

You’ve never been good at offering or accepting affection, even though your strongest love language is touch. It’s a contradiction that pulls at your heart every time her fingers brush a stray hair from your face; one that has you wishing you could bring yourself to do the same just _once,_ and yet simultaneously keeps you from doing exactly that. You wish you could give pieces of yourself to others so freely. You wish you had a heart so big that it didn’t matter if half of it was scattered to the wind, clasped in the palms of people who once needed you but don’t anymore. You wish you could be more like her.

That’s what you think, as she rests her head in your lap and seeks comfort from you as you watch endless Disney movies together. It’s what you think every time she’s near, her airy voice only fueling the oxygen-starved flame in your heart. It’s always in the back of your mind when she’s far away, when her absence has smothered that very same fire.

You wish you had her courage, her confidence.

_(There are other wishes, too, floating in the back of my mind. Waiting to be entertained. If those wishes could ever come true, I’d never wish for anything again.)_

* * *

She invites you to the river one day. It’s calm, a breeze ruffling your hair as you watch the sun dance atop the surface of the water. A pink sky spreads out before you. Fluffy, purple clouds float over the open expanse and you swear you could pluck them right out of the air, only to watch them melt between your fingers. Contrary to most late summer evenings, the crowd is small, dwindling now, with the sun dipping ever lower.

A simple melody reaches your ears—one that over the last months has become familiar to you. Rosé sits next to you with her brows knit in concentration. Her guitar sits in her lap as she plucks out a simple, appealing tune. Something is off, however, and she stares at her notebook—almost glaring down at the scribbles within. She’s gripping the pen with such ferocity that you half expect it to splinter in her hand and spill the remaining ink all over her hard work.

“Having some trouble?” It’s a simple question. Rosé’s answer comes slowly, though, as she busies herself with crossing out another line of notes.

“I can’t work out this chord progression,” she mumbles through her teeth. “It’s giving me a headache.” You chance a look into her composition book and find countless scribbles. Small reminders written in the margins distract from the piece she’s working on, but you can still make out the lyrics she’s penned near the top of the page. Sort of, anyway.

“Maybe take a break, then?” Rosé feigns offense at your suggestion, an exaggerated gasp escaping her lips.

“A _break?_ Do you know who I _am_?” A laugh bubbles from within before you can stifle it, and she grins like she’s won something when the sound reaches her ears.

“Sometimes I question your sanity,” you retort with a shake of your head. You lean back on your arms, watching the last vestiges of twilight disappear behind the clouds. When Rosé doesn’t respond, you glance at her again. She’s working away, writing something on the following page before she loses what’s left of the light. “I’m being serious,” you say, and this time she doesn’t look at you.

“So am I,” she replies simply. “This song is going to be my solo debut.”

“Really?” You can’t help the surprise in your tone. “But isn’t this the first time you’ve ever composed something?”

“It’s not the _first_ original I’ve ever written, but it’s the first one getting produced.” With a dissatisfied shake of her head, she caps her pen and closes the notebook. “All of my other songs were from when I was little. You know—dumb rhymes and schoolkid grammar.”

“So, you mean they were terrible?” The jibe earns you a playful shove.

“Hey, they were good for first attempts.” Rosé begins to gather her things, before you stop her on an impulse. She glances over at you, eyes dragging over the hand that snatched her wrist so suddenly before she quirks an eyebrow. Your skin burns from within, a blooming warmth that you’re still unfamiliar with.

“Let me see your guitar,” you say, releasing her arm. She draws her hand back, watching you warily as she grips the neck of the fine instrument. As a player yourself, you know exactly why she’s apprehensive. Too many times you’ve let someone handle your precious babies, only for them to fall to the floor in pieces. You wait, hand outstretched, and watch her resolve crack.

“Be careful,” she warns. Her eyes are narrowed dangerously, but you can still tell that she’s joking. You laugh as she sets the wood gingerly in your hands.

“I just want to try something.” Settling the guitar across your lap, you place the capo in the same spot Rosé had it situated. A quick strum confirms that you’re not familiar with the key she chose, but you can still pick out the sounds of the melody even in that one simple motion. So you pick at the steel between your fingers, playing the tune she’s written so far. She watches you in wonder, eyes dark in the fading evening light, yet reflective of the city just behind you. When you pause, she speaks up.

“Why does it sound better when you play it?” she grumbles, frustrated.

You hum but decline to answer as you think up a potential hook. Your fingers still as you glare at the fretboard, an idea forming in your head. Positioning your hands, you play the theme as it comes to you; chords and runs accompanied by percussive bass strikes on the lower strings. You smile as you reach the sort of sound you’re looking for. Sweet with faint parallels of the style Blackpink is so known by. Proceeding to play the melody and the hook in succession, you match rhythms and tempos as the strings echo one another, ringing clearly in the wooden body of the guitar in your grasp. When you’ve finished, Rosé is slack jawed.

“What do you think?” You pass the instrument back to her, smiling a bit sheepishly after your shameless display of skill. Rosé shakes her head in disbelief.

“I think,” she whispers, her eyes locked to yours, “that was amazing.” She grabs her notebook, shoving it into your arms. “Could you write that down for me?”

“Sure,” you squeak. Smoothing the wrinkles from the now dog-eared pages, you manage to scribble what you played somewhere in the margins of her notebook. As you do, you look up to see her practicing the hook—eyes focused, tongue caught between her teeth, hair swaying gently in the breeze—and you smile to yourself.

_(Doodles in the margins of the pages, words dedicated to a soul whose name nobody else will ever know. If she notices the tiny hearts I drew there instead of notes on a staff, she doesn’t say so. But the smile I see is enough.)_

* * *

Rosé taps her pen impatiently upon the metal lattice of the table and takes an aggressive sip of her coffee as she scrawls another verse. She hums casually over the scratching of the paper, the familiar melody rising easily from her throat as she spends yet another afternoon with no other company but you and her notebook.

The café, normally bustling on Saturday afternoons, is empty save for the two of you in your usual spot. The barista sits behind the counter giving her legs a much-needed rest as you sit across from the idol, pretending to read. Occasionally you flip a page—to keep up the ruse, of course—but your eyes are always elsewhere. The sky just outside the tall windows, or the park across the street. Most of the time, they’re on Rosé. On how the corners of her mouth draw into an adorable frown when she’s absorbed in her work, or how she taps out the same rhythm repeatedly as she plugs away at the sub-melodies and key changes.

Your own cup, empty for the better part of an hour, rattles when she shifts positions and pins her knees against the edge of the table. Rosé sits, folding herself like a pretzel in her small chair, and you think she looks a bit ridiculous as she does it. Cracking a fond smile and closing your book with a soft _thump_ , you grab both cups, slowly making your way to the counter. Your regular barista hops down from her stool and smiles as she refills the two mugs.

“So,” she starts, wiggling her brow. “You and miss Rosé, huh?”

Your head snaps up and you can feel how wide your eyes are; how the blush creeps up the back of your neck and settles in your cheeks before you’re able to will it away. You look from the barista to Rosé and then back again, fumbling for the words to explain that you are, in fact, not dating her.

“I’m sorry?” It’s not the denial you hope for, much to your own confusion. The barista just lets out a short, concise laugh.

“You know what I mean.” The smug look on her face stirs something in your gut—a sort of nervousness you haven’t felt since the first time you met the rest of Rosé’s bandmates.

“We’re not a thing. The two of us, I mean,” you sputter, shoving your hands into your jacket and refusing to meet the smug barista’s eye.

“Sure,” she snorts. She slides the mugs your way and you catch them with a practiced ease that makes you question just how much time you spend here. She hops back onto her perch and waves you away. “Go sit with your girl. I won’t tell anyone.”

“We’re just friends,” you hiss, failing to hide how flustered you are. Your assurance does nothing to discourage her grin as you turn away from the counter.

Your stomach twists, nauseating you. _Just friends_. It hurts, and you’re not sure why.

Rosé looks up just as you set her cup in front of her, smiling her thanks. She takes a sip, humming contentedly as the fresh coffee warms her.

“Thanks,” she says with a smile. Her eyes are turned up to you for the first time in an hour, and your heart stutters. She looks at you like she did that night—like you’ve somehow plucked the sun from the sky and presented it to her, wrapped in a fine bow of stardust. You smile back, fumbling for your seat before you plop down far more clumsily than you intend.

“Uh.” A beat. “How’s it coming along?” you ask, gesturing to the notebook. She grimaces, seeming to think a moment before she holds the page out for you to see.

Notes and various musical phrases are struck through with single lines, lyrics crossed out entirely, whole verses written in the margins of the paper. You whistle.

“Not great?” Rosé lets a humorless laugh escape her before she stares at the paper.

“You could say that.” You glance back to the barista, watching you with a knowing grin still plastered all over her face.

“Would you maybe want to get out of here?” The question is sudden. Your eyes snap to Rosé’s as she shoots you a bemused look.

“Any particular reason you’re so eager to leave?” she inquires, smirking. “That cute barista, maybe?”

“What? No!” Your voice goes shrill, and Rosé rolls her eyes at you.

“Oh, please. You’re blushing!” she points out fondly, reaching over the table to pinch your cheek. You swat her hand away with a grunt. “Just ask her out, give her your number—something!” She smiles like she’s got you all figured out. “You chat her up every time we’re here. You were over there for three minutes getting a _refill_ just now.”

“It _was_ just a refill,” you mime back, voice thick with sarcasm. “And besides,” you mutter, gathering your things hastily into your bag. “The person I like already has my number.” For a moment, Rosé seems stunned—almost disappointed. Her expression falls, only for an instant, before she pulls her lips into a sly grin and pretends you never saw it.

“Oh? Do tell,” Rosé drawls as you stand to leave. You scoff, shoving her with your shoulder as you step into the cool, mid-afternoon breeze.

“Not a chance.”

Crisp air does nothing to lessen the burning under your skin.

_(That brightness in my heart grows stronger every day. I’ve decided to give it a name of its own.)_

* * *

It’s the middle of August and nearly three in the morning when you jolt awake, eyes aching from the light that washes over the walls and interrupts your dreams. You roll over, at first entirely oblivious to the buzzing of your phone on the nightstand not a foot to your left. When it seems that whoever it is won’t be hanging up any time soon, you fling an arm to the side and feel around until your phone ends up pinched between your fingers. It’s Rosé.

“Yeah?” you croak. You don’t mean to sound irritated, but your voice cracks just enough that it’s evident you’re still shaking the grogginess of sleep.

“I woke you up, didn’t I?” She’s apologetic, and you can hear her shuffling awkwardly on the other line. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, hanging your legs over the side of the bed. “What’s up?”

Rosé hesitates, starting and stopping several times before she manages a small, “I’m outside,” and falls silent again. You can feel your body tense, red flags prodding at your mind when you hear the strain in her voice.

“Just a second.” You hang up, reaching for a large shirt to cover your otherwise minimally clothed self. In the hallway just outside your room, two pairs of fuzzy slippers await. You shuffle towards the entryway, slippers in hand, and with some effort manage to pry the door open with your tired arms.

Rosé stands, eerily still, with her shoes already hanging loosely from her fingers as the door swings wide and you let her in. All it takes is a moment for you to notice the circles under her eyes; the makeup that runs in droves down her cheeks. She stumbles to the couch and collapses onto it. Your heart hurts just watching the disjointed movements that are so unlike the graceful girl you’ve come to know. You let the front door close, simply standing as you listen to her try and fail to hold back a dejected sigh. Rosé hunches over herself, hiding her face in the sleeves of her sweater. Without a word, you shuffle to her side and take a seat.

“Thanks,” she mumbles. You can hardly hear her, with the way her face is stuffed between cotton sleeves.

The two of you sit in companionable silence; one huddled among throw pillows and the other with arms drawn around themselves for some semblance of comfort. It’s a routine that, even after so long, you’re still not used to; the trust she so openly shows in you and your special brand of comfort. This time, she’s so quiet it almost hurts you to think about what could be rattling around that beautiful brain of hers. So you wait. You lay your head back on the cushions, watching as the city lights sprawl over your living room. 

Bathed in a muted, orange glow, the space feels cut off from the rest of the world. As though your front door leads to another dimension; a peaceful one. You feel it every day, unwinding after work, when you cross the threshold and never look back. You know Rosé feels it, too. When she visits and the tension falls from her shoulders, like a shawl slipping from her body. This time, it’s different. Her body remains coiled tight, holding in every ounce of spite and stress. Every breath she releases comes out as a sigh, and you _know_ that she’s hurting.

“I can tell you’re not okay,” you whisper.

At first, Rosé doesn’t look at you. It takes several agonizing moments, but eventually her head swivels to the side and you meet her eyes. Even in near darkness you can see the tears forming there, and your heart breaks for her.

“I know you can.” Her voice is broken, teetering on a dangerous edge as she bites her lip to quiet the soft hiccups that rise in her throat. You reach out, hesitating when your fingertips brush against her knuckles. Your throat tightens around the words you want to say. Your eyes dart away from hers, and rather than taking her hand, your own lands politely on her knee.

“Will you tell me what’s bothering you?”

Rosé stares at your hand—the one that had been _so_ very close to grasping her own—and frowns. It’s small, and it only lasts an instant. But you notice it. You watch as she wordlessly eases your hand into hers. She laces your fingers, her thumb leaving a trail of tingling nerves over the tips of your fingers as she brushes over them absently.

“Nothing.” A pause. “Everything.” She heaves a frustrated sigh. Her free hand tousles her already unkempt hair. “I don’t know.”

You squeeze her hand. “You don’t know?” Rosé shakes her head. She opens her mouth, but all that leaves it is a quiet, broken exhale that seems to carry her will to speak with it. Her shoulders quake: the bones of your hand creak as they’re wrapped in the vice of her fingers. Your stomach bottoms out and you can’t do anything but let her cry.

Rosé doesn’t scream—even though you know she wants to. It’s quiet when the dam breaks. There’s no fanfare, no wailing. She simply sits and stares at the wall. Her tears are thick and heavy, falling to her sweater the moment they tumble from her lashes.

To be in that kind of pain—the sort where even crying is numbing, like an emotional sedative—is something you wouldn’t wish on anyone. Least of all the girl at your side.

You move, for a reason you can’t fathom. Perhaps to get her a drink to keep her hydrated. Maybe it’s to grab tissues from the box you keep on the island in your kitchen. Or maybe it’s to give her space. You forget why you’ve risen to your feet the moment she yanks you back to the cushion.

“Please,” she practically begs, “just stay.” Rosé clings to your sleeve, her hands shaking almost violently. Her face is turned away, but you know she’s got her eyes screwed shut to stem the tears; that she’s biting her lip to the point of bruising just to keep herself from breaking. You do as she asks, settling back into the couch and scooching closer to her. Rosé watches you, asking a wordless question while you situate yourself against her side. You wait for her surprise to melt away, for her to understand that you’ll _always_ be there whether she likes it or not.

When she falls into your chest, your arms come to rest around her shoulders. 

“Sure,” you say, throat tight. “Whatever you need.”

So, you stay there, wrapped up in one another for god knows how long. Her arms are locked tight around your chest, her face buried in the crook of your neck. Warm, stuttering breaths tickle your pulse point. Tears soak into the cotton of your plain shirt, and although you mind it, you don’t dare say as much. Rosé has been so quiet the whole time you swear she’s dozed off. You feel like you might, too. Wrapped in warmth and peace and _Rosé_ , sleep begins to creep at the edges of your consciousness.

At five in the morning, give or take a few minutes because your eyes snap open too fast and you can’t read the clock on the far wall, Rosé speaks up.

“They…liked the song.” You perk up, entire body tense at her words. She lifts her red eyes up to yours, but you don’t see anything good there. Your shoulders drop.

“But?” you press, brows furrowing. Rosé hesitates. Her eyes wander, looking at anything but you.

“But,” she sighs, “there’s a problem.” She disentangles your limbs, scooting to the other side of the couch. _She never does that._ The loss of contact leaves you cold. You could wrap your arms around yourself instead of letting them fall lamely at your sides, but you know it wouldn’t feel the same. You miss her warmth, and that scares you.

You lower your eyes to the floor, finding that looking at Rosé prompts an unknown pain to lance through your chest. It’s not like the empathy you felt moments before. It’s… different. Visceral _._ As though a part of you is slipping away, like sand through your fingers.

“What’s the issue?” Your voice cracks on the last syllable, throat dry in your sudden discomfort.

“I wrote it about something,” she pauses, brow pinched, and then, “… _someone_ specific. The lyrics are very personal to me.” Rosé glances to the window, eyes misty. “The producers don’t think others will be able to relate to it. They want me to change the lyrics.”

“Oh,” is all you can say. Your gaze remains fixed upon the area rug, suddenly finding the monochrome patterns _very_ interesting.

“I refused.”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide and filled with nothing but her. She won’t look at you, but you can still see the conflict in her face. She has a white-knuckled grip on her own arms, leaning forward on her elbows.

“Why?” you wonder aloud. You stare at her profile, the line of her jaw made sharper by the streetlight filtering in through the windows. She looks at you. Then, as only a few times before, you’re allowed to see the _real_ Rosé. The one that hides behind smiles and laughter and kindness. She’s small. Unsure. But more than anything, she looks _exhausted_. Tired of being alone even when she’s surrounded by her friends.

“Because,” she murmurs. “It’s my story and I want to tell it.” Rosé turns her eyes away. She stares at her feet, toes curled in the soft rug. The hairs on the back of your neck bristle.

“The producers said something to you, didn’t they?” you say before you can clamp your jaw shut. She doesn’t seem surprised by your assertion—as though she knew you would reach that conclusion. With a heavy, despondent sigh, Rosé bends forward until her forehead lands on her knees.

“Nobody wants to hear what I have to say. Nobody will care. That’s what they said.”

Your breath leaves you, then, and you think this _might_ be how you become a murderer. Rage spools from your gut, a string pulled so taught that it physically hurts you. But instead of launching yourself right out your third story window to hunt those fuckers down like you want to, you force yourself to look Rosé in the eye. You reach for her hand and you don’t hesitate this time when you take it in your own.

“I care,” you say. “I want to hear this story.” The conviction in your own voice surprises you. _Scares_ you. Recently, many things have been scaring you when it comes to her. “They’re wrong, Rosé. They are _wrong_ and people _will_ listen because it’s _you._ ”

Rosé doesn’t say a word. Her eyes search yours, and you don’t move. You think if you do, you might combust.

“Will that be enough?” she wonders aloud. Her gaze is distant and not entirely there, and you wonder just how many people have taken her for granted. You squeeze her hand. She looks so broken when her eyes find yours again. It makes you want to scream, but you hug her instead. Rosé doesn’t hesitate to return the embrace, clutching tightly to your shirt. Given how rarely you’re the one to initiate physical contact, she’s content to keep you close for as long as you’ll stay there.

“It’s enough,” you say. “You’re enough.” She exhales.

“Thank you,” she says. Her arms tighten around you.

“For what?” Rosé hums, a pleasant vibration into the side of your neck.

“For listening,” she mumbles. “For caring.”

“Of course I care,” you scoff.

_I care so much that it terrifies me._

You don’t say that last bit out loud.

_(Like a pillar of strength. There for me when I can’t be there for myself, to pull me away from the dark ocean of my thoughts on the worst days.)_

* * *

“When am I gonna get to hear the whole song and not just bits of it?” you ask one day at the height of autumn. You lay beside her in the grass as she puts the finishing touches on a much cleaner piece of sheet music. The sky is a faded sapphire; the trees blazing hues of red and orange. Leaves fall through the air as confetti would, as though the earth is celebrating on this day. You catch one—a gradient from yellow to the brightest hue of orange you’ve ever seen—and twist it between your fingers as Rosé watches above you, amused.

“You’ll get to. Eventually,” she answers. She lays a gentle hand on your forehead, her eyes crinkling as she watches you. You pout, drawing your brows into a cynical stare.

“That’s vague,” you whine. Your arms drop to the soft grass beside you, the leaf still pinched between your fingers. She laughs. It’s airy, the kind easily carried amidst the floating leaves, and it makes you smile.

“I haven’t even been approved for recording yet. Hell, so far you’re the only one outside the company that’s even heard _parts_ of it—and _you’re_ the one that helped with the chorus.” She hides her pen away in her bag, leaving the notebook far out of your reach.

“Well! Don’t I feel special,” you muse. It earns you a slap on the arm and another laugh. You _really_ don’t mind making her laugh—not when it paints the most beautiful picture you’ve ever seen.

“You should!” She joins you, stretching as she relaxes and sprawls next to you. “But you’re still not getting a full listen.”

“Fine,” you mutter, rolling onto your stomach and plopping your head into your elbows. She raises a single brow at you, the beginnings of an amused smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. You close your eyes, quiet as you bask in the sun next to her.

Days like these are the ones you cherish the most. Between a hard week’s work and long hours, it’s nice to take a moment for yourself. Or in this case, for Rosé. You normally spend your days off sleeping in, recharging after tedium at the store. Today is an exception—and you’re glad for that. Your boss insists on you pulling overtime each week, and Rosé has spent the better part of the last several weeks perfecting her song. This is something you rarely get to do with her anymore.

It’s just another reason you’re grateful for the time you get to spend with her, because not everyone gets to see her the way you do. The press and cameras see her ethereal beauty, the fans hear her angelic voice, her team sees her professionalism before performances. But you’ve seen her laugh hard enough to fall out of her seat. You’ve heard her voice waver on the verge of tears. You’ve watched her do regular things that regular people do. And you watch her now, smiling despite yourself as she lay beside you.

She looks beautiful, with her hair splayed out behind her like a crown. Her eyes catch the sun perfectly, shining like golden fire in the daylight. You’re staring; you know you are, but you can’t help it. She’s talking—probably telling a story—and all you can think of is how you don’t want this moment to end. She laughs and her entire body shakes with it. She twirls a small, pink flower between her fingers. She meets your eyes and her own soften in confusion.

“....lo? Earth to Y/N?” She snaps her fingers and breaks your concentration. Your eyes focus on hers and an embarrassed heat snakes up your neck.

“Sorry.” You apologize as you flop onto your back again in a futile effort to hide the inevitable reddening of your cheeks. You expect your head to rest on the grass but find yourself pleasantly surprised when your pillow ends up being Rosé herself. She doesn’t mind at all, threading one of her hands through your hair. You let out a content hum.

“What were you smiling about?” The question isn’t accusatory. It’s soft spoken and genuine, just like her, and the truth is tumbling past your lips before you know it.

“You.” It’s almost a whisper, nearly carried off by the wind. You can’t see her eyes, but you know they’re on you. You also know that if you weren’t blushing at being caught staring unabashedly, you’re definitely blushing at your admission. _God,_ you think, _she’s gone and made me a softie_. She shoves your head away and lets out a faint _snerk_.

“Me? Come on,” Rosé scoffs. You can imagine the crease in her brow as she says it, bewilderment evident in her voice. “I was just talking; that’s all.”

“Exactly,” you affirm, nodding along. “I like it when you talk about things that make you happy. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Coming from you? Yes.” Rosé ruffles your hair until you swat her hand away. Your head snaps around and you shoot her a glare. It’s not very menacing at all, especially when you can feel how hot your ears are at the barest of her touches.

“Don’t give me that! I can be nice when I want to.” Rosé smiles at you before you spend the next few seconds fidgeting, trying and failing to get comfortable. You huff, giving up and letting yourself lay where you are.

“You’re hopeless,” she laughs. You hum, eyes sliding closed and a lazy smile spreading over your face.

“You love it,” you murmur. A moment later, Rosé slips the flower into your hair, tucking it gently into place. The day is bright and beautiful—just like a certain someone you know— and everything feels right.

It’s unknown, _terrifying_ , but right. That might be enough.

_(I wish this were enough for me.)_

* * *

It’s not even the next week when you get a call in the middle of your shift. The shrill tone makes your heart jump, but nevertheless you’re grateful to have _something_ to break up the monotony of your day.

You pick up your phone to see _Jennie Kim_ _👀_ staring back at you.

Sighing, and feeling a very sudden interest in your very boring job, you answer.

“Hello?”

“Y/N?” the voice crackles from the other end. “It’s Jennie.” You roll your eyes.

“I have caller ID.” You tap your pen on the counter idly, watching for any customers. “Anyway, what do you want?”

“My pride, Y/N,” she says, mock hurt coloring her words. “Why do you always think I want something from you?”

“Because you do,” you say bluntly. “You only call when you need something, otherwise you’d just text me.” Jennie hums from the other line, taking her sweet time answering your remark and clearly enjoying the irritated sigh that tumbles from your lips as you wait.

“Well, the only thing I need from you is to answer a question for me,” Jennie finally says after a long moment of quiet.

“Yeah? Make it quick then because I’m at work.”

“You are?” Jennie asks, confused. “Rosie said you had the day off.”

“I did, but someone called in. I’m one of, like, four employees that work here. Someone had to cover it,” you tell her, picking at a loose thread on your polo. “ _Anyway_ , to what do I owe the pleasure?”

You practically hear Jennie puff out her chest, as though proud of what she’s about to say.

“Rosie’s song was greenlit this morning!”

You drop your pen. That is a _very_ good reason to be proud.

“That’s awesome,” you breathe. And then, louder: “Holy fuck, that’s _awesome!_ ”

“I know!” she shouts back. “So that brings me to my question. We’re getting stuff together right now for a party when she gets back tonight. Would you be able to come?”

“Of course,” you answer without hesitation. “When does it start?”

“Eight,” Jennie says. You can hear Lisa and Jisoo arguing over streamer placement in the background. Lisa wants to put them right in the entryway, Jisoo wants to put them further inside so they don’t give away the surprise. Personally, you would string them up closer to the ceiling, so they don’t fall off the walls, but that’s just you. Jennie sighs, and you can picture her pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I’ll be there.” Your words come just as a customer walks inside, the door setting off its automated chime. “Oh sh— uh, talk soon! Bye!”

“Y/N, wha—” Jennie’s voice cuts off as you abruptly end the call, the customer glancing over at you in bemusement. You smile a little too wide at them and wave as they return to their browsing, albeit with a newfound fervor spurred by your awkwardness.

You couldn’t bring yourself to care. In three hours, you’d be free of this place; celebrating the first of many big moments in Rosé’s life that you hope to be there for.

_(Even wrapped in blessings as I am, I still hope for just one more.)_

* * *

Unfortunately, you don’t really have time to get changed before the party. In fact, you’re _late_ for said party because your relief didn’t show up on time and you had to stay an extra thirty minutes cleaning up after some _lady_ and her demon spawn who had knocked over an entire meticulously placed display of limited run beer. So, not only were you late, but you smelled like you’d been sitting in a bar bathroom all day.

You’re so far behind that you find yourself running down the street. Well, _sprinting_ , but it doesn’t do you much good with the Friday night crowds growing larger by the second. At every turn you’re faced with throngs of twenty-somethings stumbling down the street.

_God,_ you think, _of all the times—!_

Your thoughts are interrupted as you crash into a couple exiting a bar that you frequent on the weekends. The entirety of their drinks slosh onto your shirt, your pants, your _shoes_ , but it’s your fault so—

“Sorry!” you shout over your shoulder as you let your momentum carry you toward your destination. They curse after you, but you don’t have the time to care.

You wish you’d cared, though, as you stand outside their door with shirt, slacks, and shoes all leaking cheap beer onto the tiles. All things considered; you’ve looked worse in front of them before. Not by much, but still. With a sigh, you knock.

You’re in the middle of wringing out your shirt when the door opens a crack and _loud_ music spills from their soundproofed dorm.

“Finally! She’s been—” Jisoo stops mid-sentence with bulging eyes, her mouth hanging open. She shouts something to the others and steps into the hall with you. “Why do you look like you were in a bar fight?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” you whine, still wringing the hem of your shirt onto the marble floors. “What did I miss?” Jisoo shrugs, leaning against the door.

“Nothing much. We’ve cracked open the cheap stuff but that’s about it.”

“Great,” you grind out, trying to tear your IPA-infused polo over your head. Your shirt absolutely _refuses_ to co-operate with you, and you fling your arms out in frustration. Jisoo, whose smirk you don’t appreciate, grabs your shoulder, and guides you through the door and into the party.

And… wow. There are more people there than you thought there’d be.

“Wait here,” Jisoo commands, patting you on the shoulder.

So, you do. You stand to the side, hugging the wall as idols you recognize brush past you to go god knows where to do god knows _what_. Your eyes swim in a literal rainbow of colors as the lights flicker to the beat of the music. Bodies gather in corners, on the dance floor, at the counter, on the sofa, all of them equally gorgeous. Everyone is dressed in their own interpretation of the phrase ‘fashion forward,’ with some of the more interesting outfits sporting chains and straps that belong anywhere but in public. The party is a congregation of entirely different people and styles, clashing horribly and yet oddly unified, and you _still_ manage to feel utterly out of place standing in the middle of it all.

“Here,” Jisoo says, her sudden appearance snapping you from your anxious reverie. She hands you a set of folded clothes and points down the hall, where you can see two drunk bodies moving together in the shadows. “The bathroom is the last door on the right at the end of the hall. You can get changed and then join us for the _real_ party.” A grin splits Jisoo’s face, the last three words laced with excitement. The sentiment is contagious apparently, because it has you smiling in anticipation as she returns to Jennie, who flashes you a smile from the kitchen.

You turn down the hall and shut yourself in the bathroom.

When you exit ten minutes later with soiled clothes in hand, Jennie is coming to intercept you.

“You’re here; good,” she says, swapping your gross laundry with a cup of nondescript alcohol. “Come with me. I’ll show you where Rosie’s hiding.” You follow, shaking your head and taking a sip. It’s beer, and it tastes cheap—but there’s a distinct difference between cheap from your perspective and cheap from an idol’s perspective. The piss you’re drinking probably costs more than your rent if you’re honest.

_A drink’s a drink_ , you think idly, taking another swig and shuddering when it doesn’t go down smooth. It burns, and tastes like someone soaked grass in pasta water, but warmth spreads through your limbs when it settles in your stomach. _Good enough_.

Jennie stops and you nearly walk right into her, distracted by the partygoers starting to notice that you’re not one of them. You look up, seeing the same door that’s daunted you since your first visit.

In bold, flowing calligraphy, a sign bearing Rosé’s name hangs from a single hook.

“Go say hey to the woman of the hour before she has to mingle,” Jennie half-shouts over the music. “I’ll call someone to have these cleaned for you.”

“Thanks,” you reply, sincere. Jennie smiles _very_ knowingly before she turns and saunters away, presumably to make a call to some upscale drycleaner.

Meanwhile, you take several deep and not-so-calming breaths as you stare at the door. You’ve never been in her room before. You certainly didn’t think that the first time would be with fifty other people in the living room right outside the door, waiting to gossip to their friends about the _normal girl_ that waltzed into Rosé’s room at a party thrown in her name.

_Well, whatever._ You take another sip of piss-water and turn the handle before you can change your mind.

“Rosé?” you call, poking your head into the room.

You hear frantic shuffling and a thud, quickly followed by a whispered _‘Shit!’_ as Rosé slides into view from around the corner. Her face breaks into a grin—probably the widest and happiest you’ve ever seen from her. You decide that’s your cue to step into the room fully, shutting the door behind you.

“Y/N?!” She screeches, stepping closer. “Jennie told me you had to cover a shift! I didn’t think—" Rosé stops short, her grin turning amused as she takes in your outfit. You also look down at the mismatched articles of clothing. “Are those Lisa’s clothes?” she asks, barking a laugh.

“Are they?” you question, tugging the hem out to get a closer look at the oversized hoodie and too-long sweats. “I thought they were Jisoo’s since she gave them to me. My work clothes were covered in beer,” you explain, laughing along with her. She reaches for your wrist, shaking her head fondly as she drags you further inside.

_(Even though I’m already so lucky, I still want to be selfish.)_

* * *

As it turns out, the ‘real party’ Jisoo was referring to was playing truth or dare in Rosé’s room away from the other partygoers. Most of the dares involve shots, and anyone who picks truth is booed into taking a shot regardless. It leaves all five of you drunk messes on Rosé’s bedroom floor, and only you and Rosé are conscious enough to haul yourselves onto the bed whilst giggling like schoolgirls.

The two of you sit on said mattress hours later with only slightly clearer heads, comforter gathered in a cocoon around your shoulders while Jisoo, Jennie, and Lisa are passed out on the floor. Just like that day, your eyes sweep over their sleeping faces and déjà vu hits you like a truck.

The biggest difference from that night, and the one you happen to find yourself hyper focusing on, is the distance between you.

Rosé isn’t five feet away from you anymore, sitting in a beanbag chair out of your reach; instead, she’s situated herself comfortably by your side with her head resting on your shoulder. You’ve gotten so used to contact—from her, specifically—that your heart doesn’t stop every time she touches you anymore. Now, it stays steady in your chest even when your addled mind is racing at a hundred miles a minute.

All you can seem to think of is how it’s not just the physical distance that’s been reduced to nothing.

There’s something in the air between you and Rosé. A cord taut with enough tension to snap at any moment.

“So. How did you get them to approve the song?” you ask when the silence has become too long and awkward for you to handle. Rosé stirs, and you realize that she was probably dozing off before you spoke and dragged her back to the waking world. She hums next to your ear.

“I stood my ground,” she slurs. “Told them… I wouldn’t move forward unless they left the lyrics alone.”

You can only imagine how daunting that must have been. To stand up to the producers that shaped her entire career, despite the way they’d treated her? _Damn._

“I’m proud of you.” You say it because it’s the truth, for one, but also because there’s still enough alcohol in you that your filter isn’t working like it’s supposed to. It’s a good thing that you mean those words wholeheartedly, because you feel her smile against your skin. Rosé weaves your fingers together beneath the comforter, shifting ever closer in the dwindling heat. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

“Thank you,” she breathes. She squeezes your hand—several times, as though she’s trying to assess whether you’re real or not in that moment. Then you recognize the rhythm of said squeezes as Britney Spears’ Toxic, and the poetic side of your brain decides it’s had enough for one night.

She hums the tune in your ear as you doze, lyrics spilling out at random intervals as she regales you with her best drunk Britney Spears impression. You’re in that lovely, quiet limbo between sleep and wakefulness when you swear you hear different lyrics; ones of a sweeter variety that cradle you with their warmth. With their affection.

You feel Rosé shift next to you, and then you feel her stare. You can hear her voice, but you’re too far gone to understand the words. When you finally drift those last few, blissful feet into the sea that is sleep, it’s to the feeling of her hands on your cheeks, and to the sound of her song.

_(One night, when it’s just us, I’ll sing these honeyed words in her ear.)_

* * *

The next few weeks, it’s like a switch has been flipped.

She doesn’t respond to you. Jennie, Jisoo, and Lisa don’t either. You feel like a stranger to them again. But, more out of a need to rationalize it than anything else, you pretend to be okay with it. What friend wouldn’t? The thought sours your mood.

That damnable word again. _Friend_. You wish you could fling yourself into the sun every time you think it or hear it or say it. That word isn’t enough. It will _never_ be enough. Not for you.

But it _has_ to be. Because Rosé is filming the music video, recording in the studio, attending photo shoots and promotional planning, and she needs your support even if it’s quiet.

And quiet it is. Not a single call, nor a single message.

It makes you think you’ve done something wrong; that you’ve somehow upset her, and she doesn’t want to have you in her life anymore. It pulls at the darkest corners of your mind, dragging the shadows closer to you; trapping you in a familiar cage, wrapping you in the sobering embrace of anxiety.

Every logical bone in your body knows that’s false. But some days, like this one, you feel like you don’t have many of those left.

As you walk the streets aimlessly, your feet carry you down a familiar path. You pretend not to notice how close you are to her dorm, or how you’ve been walking circles around it for almost an hour. It only makes you want more for things you can’t have. For things you _shouldn’t_ have.

Still, you stop. You look—right at where you _know_ her bedroom window is.

You turn on your heel. The building fades into the skyline behind you and you begin to make your way home again.

She needs space. To _work_. And you need to give it to her. Truthfully, though, you’ve already lost count of how many times you’ve tried to convince yourself of that.

_This is what friends are for._ The fire in your chest that Rosé had stoked to a blaze all on her own dies to an ember in her absence, taking with it all her light and warmth. Just like it always does.

Your phone chimes.

**From: Roseanne** **💙**

**_Meet at your place next Thursday?_ **

****

**From: Roseanne** **💙**

**_I have something to show you_ **

****

The fire roars to life once again.

_(I’ll tell her; I want to reach out and hold her hand in mine for the rest of my life.)_

* * *

Golden rays of light spill through the door when you open it. Rosé stands there awash in that very light, her fingers twisted together anxiously in a way that reminds you too much of yourself. Her shoulders are squared confidently, but her eyes tell you she wants to be anywhere but in front of you. Still, she manages to smile. It’s small and shameful.

“Hi,” she squeaks. The sound of her voice after weeks of deprivation sends shivers down your spine. You quirk a brow.

“Hi,” you mime back. Rosé seems unsure how to proceed. Instead of forcing anything out of her, you step aside to let her into your humble abode. She takes a moment, staring at you as if to make utterly _sure_ that you want her there at all, but eventually steps inside.

As she’d asked, your laptop was ready for her use. She makes her way over to it, sitting on the far side of the couch. You take a deep breath and follow her.

It feels weird, you decide, to sit with any sort of space between you. When you glance at Rosé, sitting on the other end of the sofa with a stiffness to her shoulders that’s become foreign to you, you think she feels the same way based on the furrow of her brow. It’s hard to ignore your mutual need for touch after you’ve spent so long indulging each other in it, but somehow, you’ve forgotten how to move in all the tension.

Your laptop sits open on the coffee table. She’s got the USB clutched so tightly in her fist you’re afraid it’ll break in her grip.

The apartment is quiet. Even the sounds of rush hour traffic are so muted that the space may as well be silent. It’s so quiet that you think she might hear the roaring of the flames in your heart, as every brazier she’s brought into your life burns with the ferocity of a pyre. Heat cracks in your ears. You feel tongues of fire lapping at your skin, ash settling in your eyes and lungs. It’s overwhelming. If you don’t cut through the silent noise of your yearning, you’ll succumb to it instead.

You clear your throat and it echoes in your suddenly very quiet head. Rosé’s eyes snap to yours wide and almost feral. She’s more nervous than you’ve ever seen her, and you think that if you try to close the distance—to make the gap smaller by even an inch—she might explode. Instead, you nod your head to the laptop. She takes a deep breath, just as she did before the agonizing ten-minute stretch of silence, and inserts the device into the computer. _God_ you really hope whatever she has for you can somehow clear up this awkwardness. It’s nearly too much to bear.

You watch as she navigates a series of folders until she comes to the file she’s looking for.

_Beginning_to_End.mp4_

When she opens it, she sits back with her chin in her hand and eyes locked on you.

A very familiar riff begins to play.

Your mouth drops open in shock and you lean forward, watching and listening with rapt attention.

They were the same chords and melodies you’d heard on repeat in the last several months. The ones you listened to when she played them for you, or when she hummed them amid other activities. The same progressions you worked out with her that day at the river, and the same hook that drew you into the dreamy chorus. The video matched that feel; whimsy woven into the imagery, ethereal filters rippling over shots of Rosé walking the streets of well-known European cities like Barcelona and Paris. There was so much about it that was nostalgic. You felt like you’d heard it all before despite never having heard it at all.

But the lyrics… those were completely new to you.

_The brightness in my chest has a name; it’s hers, reverent and beautiful._

_From the beginning: when we first met, and our voices danced through the air._

_To the end: when last her eyes met mine and it started all over again._

Wait. Voices danced?

… _Her?_

You whip your head around fast enough that it hurts, staring at Rosé. It’s like a showreel when everything hits you. Every second with her, a snapshot; a single frame among millions of others playing back your dearest moments together like a movie, and the song she wrote for _you_ is still whispering sweetly in your ears. Your first meeting. The coffee dates. The late-night jam sessions. The countless movie nights. Four A.M. walks and heart-to hearts under the stars and in the cold. The river, and the party. The silence. You can’t do anything but let yourself be dragged over every peak, through every valley, reliving the anxiety, the elation, the fear. You struggle to keep up as your heart draws the conclusion long before your mind does, but when the two are finally in sync with one another for perhaps the first time since you met Rosé, your world stops.

Oh _._

The song has long since ended. Rosé is staring at you, eyes wide with concern. She reaches for you. Her hand is trembling when she touches your cheek, wicking tears away with the tips of her fingers.

_Oh._

This is the first time she’s ever seen you cry.

_Fuck it._

You let out a sob, grabbing her outstretched arm and dragging her across the cushions into a crushing embrace. It takes her a very long second to reciprocate, but she does. She holds you in a way you can’t ever remember being held before. It’s calming and soothing and _loving_. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted and more, acknowledging and accepting lifetimes of pain while finally allowing you to start letting go.

Like a gift, it’s the best hug you’ve ever been given.

“I’m sorry for being so distant recently,” Rosé says, voice thick. “I wanted it to be perfect.”

“I—! You—!" Words won’t leave your trembling lips amidst your sobbing. Maybe that’s for the best. You wouldn’t want to shatter whatever fragile dream you’ve found yourself in by saying the wrong thing. But instead of evaporating, Rosé is a constant presence against you, cradling you so intimately that you scarcely know where you end and she begins.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she says. It sounds like a dismissal, but there’s a smile in her voice. A palpable, unwavering joy that radiates from her and into you. “Let’s just… stay like this.” She holds you tighter if that’s even possible.

Despite the swell in your chest, the words that want so desperately to escape you, you don’t say anything. You can’t, really. If you tried to, you wouldn’t be able to speak around your heart in your throat. So, you stay quiet, clinging to the only person who has ever seen what lies behind your walls and _stayed_. You don’t need to talk about what it means just yet. For now, it’s enough to simply… be.

_(I’d be okay with our story being unfinished if it meant I could relive it every day. As long as it’s being written, I’d walk with her every step of the way.)_

* * *

It’s spring again.

The evening stretches longer. Shadows, too; engulfing all in their cool embrace and hiding secrets in their depths. Light still finds its way in, piercing the veil and spilling forth like a river of gold along well-traveled pavement. It rushes over rooftops and filters through trees, like a dam has broken somewhere and the sun can’t be held back anymore. Its warmth wraps around you as you walk, enriching you.

Memories come racing back to you as you walk familiar streets, gawking at the same perennials as last year. Colors dance in your vision. Light bounces from every surface. The world is so bright, and you can’t remember it ever being this way before everything.

Before her.

A smile overtakes your features. The shop isn’t far now—just across the street from you. And from where you stand, you can already see clearly that the reason you’ve come is inside.

You enter, waving at the old man as he tunes a familiar guitar behind the counter. Music reaches you, playing softly over the speakers in the corners.

_When it started, my mind didn’t believe what my heart already knew for certain._

He smirks at you, his eyes knowing as he nods his head to the other end of the establishment. You nod back, turning your attention to the figure on the stool. She sits not thirty feet from you, an unknown guitar wrapped up in her arms. With one foot on the stool and the other planted on the floor, she sways to her song, lightly playing along with the instrument in her lap. Her low ponytail sways with her, curling down her back as if to wave at you from behind.

You grab a second stool, dragging it in front of hers and taking a seat.

Rosé beams when she sees you, her hands straying from the strings and resting along the hollow body of the guitar. You can’t help but smile back.

“Hey,” you say. There’s _so much_ wrapped in that simple greeting. She doesn’t fail to catch it, her eyes becoming misty already.

“Hey,” she breathes back. She looks around at the guitars and basses, ukulele’s and drum sets, and laughs faintly. “Déjà vu, huh?”

You can’t help but laugh, too, at the thought. How the tables have turned.

“I seem to remember a different song, last time,” you say pointedly. Rosé blushes, resting her forehead on her laced fingers. How fitting, though, that a song about unrequited love should be the start of something that is decidedly… not.

Admittedly, you still hadn’t worked out the details yet.

Rosé mumbles something through skin and bone, but you don’t catch it.

“What?” you ask, leaning closer to hear it clearly this time. She looks up at you, impossibly small.

“I knew,” she says, biting her lip. “Back then.” Rosé catches your eyes, and you couldn’t tear them away even if you wanted to.

“When?” you breathe. It’s hardly a whisper. It’s almost lost to the lyrics pouring louder now from the speakers.

_Even wrapped in blessings as I am, I still hope for just one more._

“The first time,” she whispers. “Here.”

Your heart stops. It’s not the first time Rosé has made you want to laugh and cry all at once, but it catches you off guard this time and the waterworks start before you can even think to put them under lock and key. Instead of responding intelligibly through your tears, all you can do is gasp at the things she makes you feel. At the wonder, and heart-swelling, head-pounding confusion that you want nothing more than to navigate with her. She seems to understand how you feel, because when you look at her you think there are tears falling over her cheeks too.

“You’re amazing,” she echoes, and _god_ it’s so much like it was that day. The music, the light—all of it. Even the tone of her voice is the same, but it bears a softness now that’s just for you.

“That’s my line,” you reply, just like you had before. Rosé smiles again, and it carries so much more than her words ever could.

Everything is perfect in that moment. That’s when you decide to take the leap.

“Chaeyoung,” you start. She sobers at the use of her real name, straightening on her stool. “I know there’s a lot we should talk about, but there’s something I want to say.”

Rosé worries her bottom lip for several moments, but nods for you to continue.

“Would you want to play together, sometime?”

You almost wince at how small you sound when you finally push the words past your teeth. Vulnerable in a way you almost never are. In a way you’ve only ever been with her. Rosé stares at you, confused at first. Then, realization paints her features. She stares, like she’s seeing and hearing you, truly, _clearly_ , for the first time. And then, a tentative smile—for the words she knows are behind the question. The ones you’re too afraid to say outright, but want so badly to tell her, nonetheless.

_I love you._

She starts to cry again. Thick, heavy tears. From years of harsh words, and bitter disappointment, and loneliness. You know because you’ve seen those tears before. This time, though, they’re punctuated with a disbelieving laugh. It’s barely there, and for a moment you wonder if maybe you imagined it. But then she sighs, watery and sweet, and you can’t breathe because you know what comes next. So does she.

“I’d like that.”

_I love you, too._

_(There are a thousand ways to tell someone you love them, but for her I’d write a thousand more.)_

**Author's Note:**

> did u get tired of the pining before the end? imagine how it felt to write this lmao
> 
> In case anyone was wondering; "da capo al fine" is a musical term meaning "repeat from beginning to end," and since I have a background in music I absolutely had to go with that title once I thought of it.
> 
> Dedicated to my favorite writer, who also happens to be one of my favorite people: [blkpnk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blkpnk/pseuds/blkpnk)
> 
> chat/ submit requests on my blog -> [@ blackpink-writes](https://blackpink-writes.tumblr.com/)


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